


Melon-Flavored

by larkscape



Series: VLD Kinktober 2018 [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, Frottage, Kink Discovery, Kinktober 2018, Semi-Public Sex, Shotgunning, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 18:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16203173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkscape/pseuds/larkscape
Summary: Lance elbows Pidge. “Space hookah!”“Down, boy. Don’t forget why we’re here.”Lance and Pidge are sent to get intel from a shady contact... who never shows up. The two of them have a good time anyway.





	Melon-Flavored

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober 2018: Day 5 - Shotgunning

 

When Pidge pulls the door open, the haze inside the building momentarily throws Lance for a loop.

“What the— Pidge, did Allura send us to some sort of space casino without telling us?”

Pidge’s mouth twists. “Quiznak, I hope not.”

“Wow, that's a lot of smoke. And I can smell the alcohol from here, jeez. At least I’m pretty sure that’s alcohol. Fruity.” Lance shrugs. “Okay, I guess we’re doing this. Intelligence-gathering waits for no paladin! After you?”

Pidge levels him with a mild glare and shoves his shoulder.

He stumbles inside. Dim amber light shines from hanging lamps, but it’s barely enough to illuminate the room. The air is faintly hazy with smoke; there’s a long counter lined with stools across from the door, booths all around the dark walls, and low tables with seating cushions scattered across the floor. Nearly all the tables are occupied.

The array of alien shapes still manages to catch Lance by surprise, no matter how many planets and spaceports they visit. There are just _so many_ variations. He’s pretty sure the shimmer over in the far corner is an extra-dimensional being, which is just— how do they even consume anything? This is a bar, right? It sure looks like a bar, and aren’t you supposed to drink in a bar?

“Do you see our contact?” Pidge murmurs into his ear.

“Green hair, long ears? No, not yet. Maybe we beat her here. We should get a table.”

“Sure. You go do that; I’ll keep looking.”

It took him a minute, what with the assortment of ears and hair and head-tentacles and whatever (and that’s just the humanoid clientele), but now that he’s looking closer, he realizes that each table also holds a vase-like…

Huh.

The thing on the table is not exactly a hookah, but it’s tall and probably-glass and it has liquid inside, and it has a long hose attached, and those are definitely coals on top, and okay, yes, it’s exactly like a hookah. This is a space hookah lounge. Allura sent them to a space hookah lounge to get information from a shady contact.

Not for the first time in his life — not even the first time this _week_ — Lance feels the overwhelming urge to hum the Star Wars cantina song.

He’s been in a hookah lounge before. (Once. On a dare. But it still counts.) He’s also seen Alice in Wonderland, and he knows exactly what that caterpillar was smoking; the clouds of faintly purple smoke hanging in the air had better be no stronger than space tobacco. Space tobacco he can handle. Space opium might be a bit too far.

“I thought you were getting a table,” Pidge says.

“Dude, Pidge! Do you know what this is?”

“A lounge?”

“Not just any lounge!” Lance grins and cocks his elbow for her to take, and she rolls her eyes but puts one hand on his arm. “This,” he says grandly as they approach the doe-eyed woman behind the counter, “is a—”

“What can I get for you?” the woman interrupts in a bored tone. Doe-eyed is right; her dark eyes take up half her teal-colored face.

Pidge snickers. “A hookah lounge, Lance. I noticed.” She turns her attention to the woman and the board on the wall behind her listing flavors. “Yeah, can we get a… presliit?” Then, nudging Lance, she adds in a low tone, “That’s what that zebra-striped melon Hunk made us try was called, wasn’t it?”

“Uh, sure,” Lance says, because he remembers the melon but hell if he remembers the _name._ And wow, he wasn’t actually expecting her to order anything more than maybe a drink, but okay, he supposes they have to maintain their cover and there’s no way to do that in here without a freaking space hookah at their table.

“Anything to drink?” Doe Eyes asks.

“Just water, please,” Pidge says, holding out a handful of coins, and that’s more like what he expected. Allura didn’t send them with much GAC. “We’re, um, supposed to be meeting someone here.”

“There’s a booth in the corner that’s open, should be plenty of room for three. Here’s your number. We’ll bring your pipe around shortly.” And then she’s ignoring them again.

Lance elbows Pidge. “Space hookah!”

“Down, boy. Don’t forget why we’re here.”

Ten minutes after the rendezvous time, their contact hasn’t arrived. The might-as-well-be-a-hookah arrives, though, and when the patrons at the next table over keep shooting too-curious glances their way, they manage to fumble through getting it going. Definitely not space opium, thank goodness. Lance doesn't think it's even as strong as Earth tobacco; mostly it's just smooth, water-cooled smoke and flavor.

“It really does taste like melon,” Pidge muses. “Hmm. And kinda… tingly.”

Another ten minutes roll by, and Lance is getting the hang of pulling smoke through the long hose without coughing up a lung but their contact is still absent.

“I think this might have been a bust,” he admits reluctantly at the thirty-minute mark. “I don’t think she’s going to show.”

“You might be right,” Pidge says, but she’s exhaling smoke as she does so and it makes her voice kind of raspy — makes it _smoky,_ ha — and there’s a wisp of lavender-gray curling out from her lips as she finishes, and the sound, the sight, the whole experience goes through him like a battery on his tongue. Makes all the hair on his body stand up, sizzles in the back of his throat.

Quiznak. That’s kind of— kind of really hot.

“Let’s,” he starts, then has to cough once to bring his voice back down. “Let’s not waste this, though, yeah? Since we paid and all. Or I guess Allura paid; wow, she’s bankrolling the corruption of our youth. How far the mighty have fallen.” He waves the hose around, then, for lack of something better to do and still kind of floundering in holy-shit-Pidge-did-something-mind-bendingly-attractive land and needing to shut himself up, he takes a deep pull from the hookah.

Pidge is laughing at him. He blows the smoke at her.

She stops laughing.

She stops laughing and her mouth twists into this surprised little round shape and oh god, Lance is going to die. He just blew smoke at Pidge. Why the hell did he do that?

“Sorry,” he squeaks, “oh wow, sorry.”

“Hey, Lance,” she says conversationally.

“Uh, yeah, yep, that’s me, what is it?” Oh, quiznak. Oh, _fuck._ She’s going to murder him into tiny pieces.

“Bet you can’t blow a smoke ring.”

What?

“Ha, like you can?” his mouth says, carrying on in autopilot mode. “I’ll have you know I can blow the _best_ smoke rings.”

He has never blown a smoke ring in his life. Pidge’s voice and the devil smile creeping over her face are turning his brain into mush. Good to know his reflexes run to bravado and grandstanding, even when he’s getting a fear-boner.

How is she so hot when she’s about to repaint the booth using his bloody, dismembered corpse?

“Prove it,” she says.

He’s not going to be able to prove a thing, but that autopilot bluff is still running the show because the rest of Lance is currently screaming ‘sexy scientist hell-woman is about to resort to homicide!’ and having inappropriate reactions. He pulls in another lungful of smoke from the hookah.

Just as he’s about to release it in what will likely be a catastrophic failure of a smoke ring, Pidge stands up and comes around to his side of the booth. He freezes, his breath caught somewhere tight in his throat.

“I have to judge from up close,” she murmurs. “Go on. Impress me.”

Blue screen of death. Lance.exe has encountered a fatal error and must shut down. His jaw drops open, smoke ring forgotten — he would just like to breathe again, maybe, at some point — and Pidge seals her mouth over his and

_sucks—_

just _inhales,_ she’s breathing all the smoke out of his lungs and his soul right along with it. When she’s gotten her fill and Lance is dizzy with lack of oxygen (and blood, can’t forget about all the blood rerouting south of his waistband), she pulls back and blows three perfect concentric rings right in his face.

With the smoke she just literally _stole from his lungs._

Lance is going to come in his goddamn pants. And probably die.

“Did you see that?” she says smugly. “Textbook.”

“Who are you,” he whispers with his last mortal breath, “and what have you done with Pidge?”

Instantly, she’s bright red and throwing herself out of the booth.

“No, wait, come back!”

“Shit,” she’s chanting, “shit, shit, shit— why would you let me _do_ that? What the— why did I— I have to go.”

“Pidge, no, you’re my ride!” Nope, wrong thing to say, now she’s looking at him all panicked. _“Fuck—_ no, stay, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced in my entire life, would you just stop! Stop. Come back here.”

She perches carefully on the edge of the booth seat. On the other side of the booth. Her side. She looks like she’s about to bolt and leave Lance to the tender mercies of space hitchhiking.

He inhales, a little shaky, and says, “Teach me how to blow smoke rings. Please.”

That, thank all the little green spaceman cliches they haven’t actually run into, was the right thing to say; Pidge settles back into the booth, and she still looks a bit spooked but the spark reappears in her eyes. “I thought you could blow the _best_ smoke rings,” she teases. “That’s what you told me.”

“Oh man, why you gotta call me out like this? No, no, you have to teach me how to do that thing you did. That was phenomenal.”

She gives him a surprised look. “What, shotgunning?”

“That’s what it’s called? Yeah, okay, a shotgun straight to the brain, sure.” Why is she surprised by this? She basically sucked his sanity out through his mouth. Quiznak. He has to readjust his pants. “Teach me. Do it again.”

Of course the opportunity to look down on him is what helps Pidge regain equilibrium. God, his _life._

“...You sure?”

“Don’t make me beg, Pidge, because I _will_ beg and it will be deeply embarrassing. If I don’t get to experience that again, I’ll be a lesser man for the rest of my days.”

“You are the most overdramatic person I’ve ever met.” Pidge eyes him and squirms for a moment like she’s still on the edge of leaving, but then she takes a deep breath and sits up straight in her seat. He can see the calm authority settle over her, and god, that shouldn’t be hot but he’s always known he has kind of a thing for women taking charge and this is just affirming it for him. ‘Sexy scientist hell-woman teaches sharpshooter all her filthy smoke tricks!’ screeches his hindbrain. ‘Film at eleven! Bring kleenex and the good lube!’

How the hell does Pidge know filthy smoke tricks, he wonders. No, not important right now.

“I don’t need to have done it before to understand how it works. It’s just physics, Lance, it’s simple.”

And okay, apparently he was wondering out loud. He really needs to get control of his autopilot mouth. “Simple for you, maybe. But wait, no, there is no way you, like, derived the mechanics of smoke rings in twenty minutes without even trying to make one once. I’ve been right here the whole time, I would’ve seen.”

Quiznak, she’s _blushing._ “It’s called the internet.”

“So you looked up how to blow smoke rings. For the hell of it. Prior to this little surprise adventure of ours.” He laughs. “No, I bet you’ve just been practicing over there whenever I looked away. You have, haven’t you? Admit it, Pidge, you’ve been caught.”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Rings first, Lance. You ready? Hit the hookah again. Yeah, and now sort of— purse your lips, open your mouth and hollow out your cheeks, and then you need to… puff…”

Her voice trails off when he starts to exhale— and it’s the smoke, isn’t it? For all she’s trying to play it cool, she’s trapped and stunned by the same thing that did him in: the curl of pale gray at the lips, the shape of a breath made opaque. Instead of trying for a ring, he tips his head back and lets the smoke climb out of his mouth on its own in pillowy waves, like watching cream poured into coffee but inverted, gravity-defying with his slow exhale. An impromptu fluid dynamics demonstration in a space hookah lounge.

Smoke should not look so sexy. Pidge is watching him with very wide eyes.

Then she’s sliding onto his lap, one leg thrown over him haphazardly so she can suck in the smoke. Her mouth isn’t quite touching his, and he can see the thick clouds disappearing through her open lips and _oh, fuck._

He lets her take it all, matches his exhale to her rate of inhale so they don’t lose any smoke and pushes out until his chest feels hollow.

“Pidge,” he whines with the last of his breath. “Pidge. Can I…?”

She nods when his hands come up to frame her face.

He fastens his lips to hers and inhales, and she pours it all right back into him.

Between the two of them, they’ve used up the oxygen in this third-hand air they're breathing, and Lance is starting to get lightheaded but he can’t stop tasting her. Melon-flavored smoke coats his tongue.

Finally, her lungs are empty, the flow of breath petering out. Lance feels full to bursting.

The smoke has gone hazy and thin when he finally exhales it all.

Pidge shifts on his lap. He is as hard as a freaking Balmera crystal and there is no way Pidge isn’t aware because she’s sitting directly on top of his dick. She shifts further, a little more purposeful, rocking slightly. Her cheeks are red and her eyes are unwavering on Lance’s and—

Lance whimpers, whispers, “Again?” and prays he can last more than five seconds without making a mess of his pants. At least this booth is secluded enough that no one beyond their nosy neighbors will be able to see what they’re up to.

His hands find Pidge’s hips. His thumbs dip in to trace the crease of her thighs.

Pidge lifts the hookah hose to her lips and inhales, and when she leans in again, Lance meets her halfway.

He never actually learns how to blow smoke rings.

 

They get themselves thrown out for public indecency, but not until after Lance has spent long minutes sucking smoke out of Pidge’s mouth as she grinds on his dick until they hit mutual, melony orgasm right there on the booth seat, and god, the noises she makes, the noises she makes _him_ make— so it’s all fine. Walk of shame (shame? Nah, walk of _pride)_ with come drying in his boxers as a scowly bouncer two feet taller than him and three times as broad glares him out the door of a space hookah lounge. He can check that off his bucket list.

Pidge is flushed red with embarrassment, but he felt just how wet she got when she had her tongue in his mouth and her crotch rubbing over his dick and her arms pinning his shoulders to the booth seat. The mere thought makes his heart thump in his chest, makes his hands itch to keep touching.

Oh fuck, her panties must be absolutely soaked if he could feel it through all those layers of fabric. Lance would like to see that firsthand. Touch her there, get his fingers inside, see if he can get her to make that moan again, the broken one with his name in it—

And yeah, Pidge stays bright red the whole way back to the castle, but really, _really,_ it’s all fine. She doesn’t let him get further than an arm’s length away.

Lance might be clinging a little bit, too. Mutual clinging. No problem with that.

He just has to find them a different space hookah lounge now, because he doesn’t think Doe Eyes will let them back through the doors of that fine establishment but holy shit does he want to do this whole him-and-Pidge thing again.

“You’re an idiot,” Pidge says when he tells her so, but she's kind of smiling and then she’s dragging him down the hallway toward— oh. Toward her room.

Lance grins.

 


End file.
